The Land Of Lost Content
by alphaangel
Summary: An innocence lost, a childhood ruined, a man made. Warning for discussion of childhood throughout. Based on the poem but E.A. Housman.
1. Into My Heart An Air That Kills

**1980**

"What's that noise, Daddy?" Mycroft asked tugging on his father's hand as a wailing came down the hall.

"That's your new baby brother."

"Why is he making that dreadful noise?" Mycroft placed his hands lightly over his ears to block out the wailing.

"He's crying, Mikey."

"Why?"

"Because babies can't talk so they cry to let you know that they need something."

"What does he need?"

"Well, he might be hungry, or he might need his nappy changing, or he might just want a cuddle."

"How long until he learns how to talk?"

"Probably about a year."

"A year?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so Mikey."

"Did it take me a year to learn how to talk?" Mycroft couldn't imagine not being able to speak.

"You were about nine months old."

"Why will it take him longer to learn to speak than it took me?"

"It won't necessarily, all babies are different, but normally it takes about a year."

"Oh dear."

"Don't look so worried Mikey."

"I don't think I want to be a big brother anymore."

Father knelt down in front of Mycroft. "But you are a big brother Mycroft. We can't just send the baby back."

"Mummy said that I had to take care of him and protect him."

"Yes, that's what big brothers do."

Mycroft bit his bottom lip nervously. "What if I'm not very good at it? What if I let him down?"

"You won't let him down, Mycroft. I promise. Now why don't you come and meet him?"

Mycroft sighed loudly. "Ok."

Father led him down the hall and opened the bedroom door. Mycroft peered around the door to where Mummy was sat up in bed, the sun was streaming in through the window. In her arms was a small wriggling bundle.

"Hello, dear. Come and meet your brother."

Mycroft tentatively crossed the room and stood on tiptoes beside the bed. Inside the bundle, he could see a tiny baby with dark brown hair. He lifted his hand and stroked the baby's soft, downy hair. "His hair is a different colour to mine."

"Would you like to hold him dear?" Mummy asked.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment before nodding. Daddy lifted him onto the bed and let him settle down beside Mummy. "You need to support his head with your elbow." Daddy lifted the baby from Mummy and gently deposited him Mycroft's arms.

Sherlock wriggled slightly in Mycroft's arms and he looked up at his parents nervously. "It's ok dear. He's just getting comfy."  
Mycroft watched as the baby waved an arm around freeing himself from his blanket and wrapping his hand around his brother's finger. Mycroft gasped slightly and looked up at his parents.

"I think Sherlock likes you dear." Mummy said, wrapping an arm around her sons.

"Hello, Sherlock." He murmured quietly.


	2. From Yon Far Country Blows

**1981**

"Mummy? Sherlock is crying again." Mycroft said, from the drawing room doorway.

"Where's Nanny?"

"I'm not sure." Mycroft lied, she was drinking in the pantry with the gardener.

"OK, dear, I'm coming now. Smith, could you make Mycroft some cocoa please and then take him back to bed." Mother said to the family's faithful butler.

"Of course, Madam. Young Master Mycroft." Smith bowed his head to the two of them and ducked out of the room. He returned moments later with a cup of cocoa on a tray.

"Biscuits, Smith?" Mycroft said with surprise, eyeing the treats on the tray.

"Our secret." Smith whispered.

Mycroft ate his biscuits and drank his cocoa before being led back to bed by Smith. "At least Sherlock isn't screaming now." Mycroft said as Smith pulled back his bedding, allowing him to jump into bed.

"Does he wake you often, Master Mycroft?"

"Yes, he does. It's quite annoying."

"Perhaps you could change bedroom, to another wing, so that Master Sherlock doesn't wake you?"

"Do you think Mummy would allow that?"

"She might, we wouldn't want Master Sherlock keeping you awake at night and harming your lessons."

"No, we couldn't have that."

Mycroft spent the night planning and the following afternoon he put his plan into action. He joined his mother in the drawing room as she took her afternoon tea. He sat directly in front of her with a book on his lap, blinking heavily.

"Mycroft, dear. Are you quite all right?" Mother asked from across the drawing room.

"No Mummy. I feel very tired."

Mummy put her cup down and lent across to Mycroft, placing her hand on his forehead. "Do you feel sick?"

"I'm not ill Mummy. Just tired. Sherlock woke me four times during the night." He rubbed his eyes.

Mother frowned with concern. "Nanny should be seeing to Sherlock when he cries."

"She does." Most of the time. "But he wakes me every time he cries."

"He'll be sleeping through the night soon dear."

Mycroft didn't believe that. Mother had been saying it for almost a year. "I could hardly stay awake in my lessons today." Mycroft said, pulling the ace from up his sleeve. He saw his mother's expression change. He was winning. "I thought that perhaps I could sleep in another room. Further from Sherlock until he is a little older." He continued tentatively, so close to getting his own way.

"I suppose you are old enough to not need to sleep in the same wing as Nanny any more. How about the Blue Room. It has a lovely view of the garden."

Mycroft tried not to look smug as he successfully manipulated his mother.

"Smith and the gardener can help you move tomorrow."

_Sherlock_

Mycroft stretched out in his new bed the following night. Blissfully looking forward to a night without being woken by his annoying little brother. He heard the door creak open, light spilling in from the hall. Mycroft sat up in bed, peering at the door. "Smith?"

"I thought that you might like some of Mrs Jackson's special chocolate cake, still warm from the oven."

"Oh, yes!" Mycroft said with a smile.

"How are you enjoying your new bedroom, Master Mycroft?"

"No more screaming Sherlock!" Mycroft said, taking the plate from Smith.

"Yes, and you can make as much noise as you want in this wing. No one would hear you."

Mycroft stuffed the cake into his mouth, not initially noticing Smith's hand being placed gently on his thigh.

"Thank you for bringing me the cake, Smith."

Smith patted Mycroft's thigh, moving it up his leg slightly.


	3. What Are Those Blue Remembered Hills

**1982**

"No!" Mycroft shouted from the library, causing Father to come running from his study.

"Mycroft? What's wrong?"

Mycroft turned from where he was stood facing Sherlock. "Look Daddy! Look at what he's done!" Mycroft held out his hands, showing his father a torn book.

"Mikey, Sherlock is too small to know right from wrong." Father said gently.

"But look at what he's done. It's ruined."

"I know, but he didn't mean to break it."

"Yes, he did. He's a mean, nasty boy and I don't like him." Mycroft said, looking furiously at his little brother.

Sherlock's eyes filled with tears. "Mikey?"

Mycroft held the broken book tightly to his chest. "Sorry Sherlock." He said.

Sherlock smiled, all thoughts of tears gone, and toddled out of the room.

Father knelt down in front of Mycroft. "What's wrong Mikey?"

"Look." He said again, handing over the torn book.

Father took the book in his hands, recognising it as the encyclopaedia that he had given his eldest some for his ninth birthday. "Oh, Mikey. It's ok, I know a man who can fix books. I'll take it to him when I go into London next week. It will be as good as new. I promise."

"Really?"

"Really. But you can't get angry with Sherlock, he's too young to know that what he was doing was wrong."

"But you shouldn't rip books. It's naughty."

"It's only naughty if you do it deliberately."

Mycroft frowned, struggling to accept the idea that not everything is black and white. "Sorry Daddy."

"That's ok, Mikey." Father pulled Mycroft into a hug.


	4. What Spires, What Farms Are Those

**1983**

"Smith, where is Father?"

"He's away on business, Master Mycroft."

Mycroft's shoulders slumped in disappointment. His father had promised him. "What about Mummy?"

"She is out for luncheon."

"And Sherlock?" The house was too quiet.

"Nanny has taken him for a walk in the grounds, she's hoping that he will take a nap. Is something wrong, Master Mycroft?"

"Father was supposed to help me make my model aeroplane."

"Perhaps I could help you."

Mycroft face brightened immediately. "Would you?"

Smith followed Mycroft back to his bedroom and helped him unpack the parts of the model aeroplane onto his desk. They quietly worked together for an hour. Mycroft enjoyed himself, it was the most attention he'd received since Sherlock had been born.

"I think the glue has dried now, Smith. You can let go of the wing." Smith released the wing and they both waited expectantly to see if it would hold. Mycroft looked at the aeroplane with a grin on his face.

"Well done, Master Mycroft." Smith said, his free hand slowly crept down to rub lightly against Mycroft's crotch.

"Smith, what are you doing?" Mycroft said, startled, the grin disappearing from his face in an instant.

Smith smiled calmly at Mycroft. "What do you mean, Master Mycroft?" He asked, placing his hand back onto his own thigh.


	5. That Is The Land Of Lost Content

**1984**

"Smith, what are you doing in here?"

"Ssh." Smith whispered, walking across the room. He sat down on the bed beside Mycroft putting an arm around his shoulders.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked again, flinching away from Smith.

"Ssh." Smith repeated.

"No! I don't like it. I want you to stop."

"Stop what? We're not doing anything wrong."

"I don't like it."

"I'm just teaching you how to be a big boy. You like learning."

"I don't want to be a big boy."

"But everyone has to grow up, Mycroft."

Mycroft frowned, wondering if this was really normal.

"We're not doing anything wrong. You want this as much as me."

"I'll tell Mummy!"

"Why would you do that? After everything I've done for you. Helping you move bedrooms, all the times I snuck cake in here. And now you're going to throw it back in my face? Just because I'm trying to help you. And anyway, why would you're parents believe a silly little boy like you over their trusted butler? They would hate you for telling such vile lies about me."

Mycroft thought about it. He couldn't stand the idea of Mummy and Daddy hating him. "Ok." He nodded miserably.

"That's a good boy. Now lie down and close your eyes."

Mycroft closed his eyes as tightly as possible, he was determined not to cry. Afterwards, after Smith had left the room, Mycroft curled up in a tiny ball and allowed the tears to slip from beneath his eyelids.

He lay still for hours, suddenly he couldn't stand the smell on his skin, _his_ smell. He jumped from his bed and ran down the hallway, locking himself in the bathroom. He turned the shower on as hot as possible, stripping off his pyjamas and balling them up. He stood under the scalding hot water, scrubbing at his skin.

He froze under the water as he heard a tapping on the door.

"Mycroft, dear, is that you?" His mother called through the bathroom door. The door rattled as she tried the handle. "Mycroft?"

"I'm fine Mummy."

"What are you doing dear? It's two in the morning."

Silence.

"Open the door Mikey."

Silence.

"Mycroft, open the door or I'll get Smith to come and knock it down."

"No!"

"Then open the door. Now."

Mycroft stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel tightly around himself. He slowly slid the lock across and opened the door.

"Mikey, what are you doing in the shower at this hour."

Mycroft hesitated for a second or two. "I just felt a bit cold, I thought a shower would warm me up."

Mother frowned at the lie, taking in the reddened skin and the balled up pyjamas. "Ok, dear." She said, assuming he had wet the bed. "Do you need any help?"

"No." He followed her line of sight and saw his pyjamas, he realised her assumption.

"I'll go and get you some clean pyjamas, shall I?" He nodded. He pushed the door shut as soon as she left the room and quickly splashed some water onto his pyjama trousers before stuffing them into the laundry basket. Surely his mother thinking that he had wet himself would be better than the truth.

His mother took a clean pair of pyjamas from the drawer and checked his bed. "Here you go, pop them on and I'll tuck you into bed." She said returning to the bathroom.

"Can you wait outside, please?"

"Of course, dear." Mummy said surprised at the request.

Mother tucked him back into bed. "Good night Mikey." She said, stroking his damp hair back from his forehead.

Mycroft lay in bed until he heard Mummy's footsteps disappear down the hallway. He jumped from the bed, pulling the sheets and the pillowcases off, throwing the duvet away. He took an old blanket from his wardrobe and curled up in a chair until morning.

_Sherlock_

"Mycroft, dear, are you unwell?" Mycroft continued playing with his food, unaware that his mother was talking to him. Sherlock stopped chattering away as they all turned to Mycroft.

"Mycroft? Your mother is talking to you." Father said. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft looked up from his plate.

"Is something wrong, dear? You've barely touched your dinner." Mummy asked.

"Is something bothering you, Mycroft?" Daddy said at the same time.

Mycroft looked startled by the questions, not sure which to answer first. Or what to say. He could see Smith hovering in the corner of the room, out of his parents' line of sight. Smith stared at him, an odd expression on his face. "I…erm…" He looked over to Smith who frowned at him. "I don't feel very well. May I please leave the table."

"Yes, dear. You do look a little peaky. Smith, can you go up with Mycroft. I'll be up after dinner, dear."

Mycroft jumped up suddenly, knocking his chair back which tipped onto two legs before righting itself. "No. I'll be fine. I just want to lie down for a little while. No one needs to come up." He desperately wanted his mother to sit beside his bed, and stroke his hair back from his forehead but he couldn't risk Smith being sent up with him.

"Ok. I'll look in on you later, if you're sure."

Mycroft tried to stand up straight with his head held high but it was difficult when he was in pain. "I'll be fine, mother."

His mother frowned as he left the room, Mycroft calling her mother instead of mummy was not lost on her.

_Sherlock_

Mycroft tensed as he heard the quiet knock on his bedroom door, closing his eyes as the door opened. Maybe Smith would leave him alone if he though Mycroft was sleeping. He heard footsteps coming towards his bed, he almost sighed as he recognised them as the footsteps of his mother. She sat on the edge of his bed and stroked his forehead.

"I know you're awake, Mikey." He opened his eyes, relaxing under her gentle touch. "What's bothering you, darling?"

"Nothing Mummy. I just feel unwell."

"You would tell us, wouldn't you? If something was wrong you'd tell Daddy or I?"

"Of course Mother." He said with a sniff. Lying to his mother.

"You know you can talk to us about anything, don't you?"

Mycroft sniffed again.

"How about I sit here with you until you fall asleep."

Mycroft nodded, leaning into her touch.


	6. I See It Shining Plain

**1986**

"Sherlock, this is important, you must tell the truth."

Sherlock looked up at his brother through teary eyelashes. "Yes, My?"

"Did Smith … did he touch you somewhere … somewhere private." Mycroft said awkwardly.

Sherlock looked down at his shaking hands, breaking eye contact with Mycroft.

"Do you understand what I mean? Did he touch you somewhere that would normally be covered by your underwear? Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded silently.

A flash of fury passed across Mycroft's face.

"I didn't want him to!" Sherlock said defensively, misunderstanding Mycroft's expression.

"I know. I know you didn't. I want you to remember this. If you forget everything else I ever tell you, just remember this. You haven't done anything wrong. An adult must never touch a child like that. Never. And it is always the adult's fault, never the child's. Do you understand me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded quickly.

"I won't let him hurt you again."

"But you're going to school. How will you stop him from there?"

Mycroft was silent.

"I could come to school with you?"

"In a few years, Sherlock, in a few years. But I will protect you. Where ever I am. I will always protect you."

_Sherlock_

"Why do I need to see Dr Edwards, Mother?" Mycroft asked as he sat stiffly in the waiting room. "I'm not ill."

"Just a check-up before you go off to school." Mother lied. Mycroft frowned at the lie.

"Mycroft Holmes?" The receptionist called across the waiting room.

"Go on dear. You know where you're going, you're old enough to go in by yourself now."

_Sherlock_

Mycroft stood outside the door to his father's study with his ear pressed against the heavy wood.

"I don't think there is anything physically wrong with him. Is it possible that he is just nervous about going to school?" He could hear Doctor Edwards saying.

"Up until a few weeks ago he could hardly wait to go to school. Now he seems desperate to stay at home. He doesn't seem to want to leave Sherlock." Father said through the door.

"I don't think it's anything to be concerned about. I remember feeling much the same before going away to school."

"He just seems so dreadfully worried."

"He's a young boy about to go through a huge transition, it's quite natural to be nervous."

_Sherlock_

Mother and Father were out, having lunch with friends in a nearby town. Sherlock was in his bedroom, playing his violin loudly, the door pulled tightly shut muffling the noise slightly. Nanny was out in the garden, he could see her from the landing window, giggling with the gardener. Mycroft's plan was working smoothly so far. He could hear Smith coming along the passageway, carrying a pile of clean washing. Mycroft stood out of sight until Smith was at the top of the wide wooden staircase.

"Smith?" He called, stepping out from the shadows.

"Master Mycroft?" Smith answered, a smirk on his face. He turned to Mycroft, his back to the stairs.

"You shouldn't have touched Sherlock." Mycroft said, a calm smile on his face. "I let you do what you wanted to me. But I will not allow you to hurt my brother."

"And what are you going to do, Master Mycroft? Tell Mummy and Daddy? They wouldn't believe you. No one will believe you."

"I don't need anyone to believe me." Mycroft used both hands to push against Smith, who teetered for a moment on the step. Mycroft thought for a second that Smith wouldn't fall. That he wouldn't succeed in his plan.

Smith tried to reach out for the handrail but the washing knotted around his hands and he couldn't catch himself.

Mycroft saw the look of realisation crossing Smith's face before he stumbled backwards down the stairs, landing with a satisfying thump at the bottom.

The music coming from Sherlock's bedroom stopped for a moment and Mycroft thought that the noise must have disturbed Sherlock, that his brother would come out to find the cause of the disturbance. He tiptoed down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom, ready to distract Sherlock if necessary. He held his breath and listened until he heard a rustle of sheet music and Sherlock began playing again.

Mycroft hurried back to the landing window to check that the Nanny was still in the garden before he calmly walked down the stairs to where Smith's body lay broken and bent. He was satisfied to see Smith's neck was at an awkward angle to his body but he bent down to check for a pulse anyway. Upon not finding one, Mycroft gathered the clean washing from the stairs and gathered them around Smiths ankles, making it look like he could have tripped. He stepped back, admiring his handy work, convinced that he would not be implicated in the death. He calmly walked away from the staircase and to his bedroom on the other side of the house.

Mycroft sat by his window sill watching as Nanny finished flirting with the gardener and came back into the house. He hoped that she would find Smith's body and not Sherlock. He listened carefully to Sherlock's violin music until he hears a scream. Sherlock's music stops abruptly as Mycroft leaves his bedroom, running towards the sound of the scream.

This was important. The final step of his plan. He couldn't give anything away now. Certainly not to Sherlock who could read him so well.


	7. The Happy Highways Where I Went

**1987**

Mycroft held his breath as he was pulled into his mother's tight embrace, tolerating her touch. His father stepped past him, carrying his suitcase and dropping it in the entrance hall. Mycroft pulled away, seeing a strange man lift his suitcase up and carry it up the stairs.

"Who is that?" Mycroft demanded, pointing towards the disappearing figure.

Mother turned to look at the man. "That's just Jones, dear. He's our new butler."

"You've a new butler?"

"Yes, Mikey. I know he's not Smith but he is rather good. And I know you were close to Smith but we had to replace him eventually. It has been nearly four months since the poor man had that dreadful accident."

Mycroft blushed. "I wasn't close to Smith!"

Suddenly thunderous footsteps came down the staircase and a small body was flung at him. "Mikey! I've missed you so much." Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around Mycroft's waist.

Mycroft pushed him away. "Get off of me Sherlock."

Sherlock stumbled backwards and looked up at his brother with a hurt expression on his face.

Mycroft looked away from Sherlock. "I'm going to unpack. And tell Jones that I don't want him in my bedroom. I'll keep it tidy myself."

"Ok, Mikey." Mother said, patting her eldest son gently on the cheek.

Mycroft turned slightly, moving his face away from his mother's touch. "It's Mycroft." He said irritably before hurrying up the stairs, ready to lay down the law with this new butler.

"Does Mycroft not like me any more?" He heard Sherlock say from the bottom of the stairs.


	8. And Cannot Come Again

**2011**

"Mycroft, do you remember when the butler died? Smith?" Sherlock asked suddenly, laying his violin on his lap.

Mycroft froze for a moment, doing his best to hide his reaction. "Vaguely." He replied cautiously. "Why?"

"Were you responsible for it?" Sherlock said quickly, plucking the strings of his violin nonchalantly.

"Why would you say such a thing?"

"Were you? Mycroft?"

Before he knew it Mycroft had nodded. "Yes. I pushed him."

"Why?"

"You know why, don't you?"

"Did he do something wrong? Something he shouldn't have?"

"Do you really not remember?"

"I must have deleted it." Sherlock replied flippantly.

Mycroft hesitated, swallowing awkwardly while trying to form an answer. "He did something very wrong. Something terribly, terribly wrong. I had no choice."

"What did he do?"

"Please, little brother, don't bring this up. Just trust me. I did the right thing. I kept everyone safe."

"What did he do? Did he hurt you?"

"Yes, but that wasn't why I did it."

"Then why?"

"You really want to know? You really want to open this can of worms? Once opened we can't just tidy it away again. These words can't be unsaid."

"Yes, tell me, I know I should remember."

"He hurt you, Sherlock, he hurt you. So I ensured that he would never be able to hurt you, or me, or anyone else again."

"What did he do?"

"Please, Sherlock, please don't."

"Tell me. Or I'll phone Lestrade and have you arrested."

"Don't be silly. As if he would arrest me. As you so crudely put it – I _am_ the British Government."

"Then I'll phone Mother and Father and tell them."

"Don't even joke about it Sherlock!"

"I am not joking."

Mycroft gave his brother a horrified look.

"What did he do?"

Mycroft watched Sherlock for a few seconds, he wasn't going to give in. "He touched you … inappropriately."

Sherlock seemed to take this well, maybe he already knew but wanted Mycroft to confirm it. "I thought as much. Why didn't you just tell Mother?"

"I don't know." Mycroft looked desperate, miserable. "Because I was scared, because I was confused, because ... I was a child. I was thirteen, Sherlock. And he'd convinced me that no one would believe anything I said. I did what I thought I had to. He hurt you and I was going to school and I didn't know how else to protect you." He was getting flustered. Years of anxiety and guilt bubbling to the surface and breaking through his calm composure.

"He might have never done it again."

"He would have."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because … because he had been doing the same to me since you were just a baby. He was a dirty, manipulative man. And he would have done a lot worse had I not stepped in."

"He abused you?" It was said as a question but it wasn't really. Sherlock knew the answer.

"Yes." Mycroft said with ice in his voice.

"He touched you?"

"Yes."

"Did he do anything else? Did he … did he-"

"Did he what?"

"Did he rape you?"

Mycroft chose not to answer. Unable to form any words. Instead closing his eyes in shame.

Sherlock remained silent for a moment. "Have you told anyone?"

"Of course not. Why on Earth would I have told anyone?"

Silence reigned for a few long minutes, both needing the time to process their thoughts.

"I remember you telling me it wasn't my fault. It wasn't your fault either, you know that, don't you? Don't you, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sat silently, remembering all the ways that it was his fault.

"After he died, you wouldn't look at me. For years you barely spoke to me. Was that why? Because of what you had to do to protect me?" Sherlock was finally able to ask the question that had bothered him for so many years. _Why had their relationship changed? _

"No Sherlock. I couldn't look at you because I was ashamed."

"Of me?"

"No, not of you, I have never been ashamed of you."

"Then what?"

Mycroft closed his eyes as embarrassment flushed his cheeks. "I was ashamed of myself. Every time I looked at you I was reminded of how I'd failed you. I failed to protect you. If I'd done something sooner … he wouldn't have hurt you."

"You've never stopped trying to protect me."

"No, and I never will. I know you hate me but…"

"I don't hate you. I was hurt, when you stopped talking to me. I thought I must have done something wrong."

"No, you hadn't. I was just so terribly angry with myself."

"You needn't be, brother mine." Sherlock stood and lifted his violin. "I think it's time you forgave yourself." He said before turning away from Mycroft and playing a melancholic tune.

_Into my heart an air that kills_  
_From yon far country blows:_  
_What are those blue remembered hills,_  
_What spires, what farms are those?_

_That is the land of lost content,_  
_I see it shining plain,_  
_The happy highways where I went_  
_And cannot come again_

A. E. Housman from "A Shropshire Lad"


End file.
